Sherlock the Baby sister
by CcTravesty
Summary: *I'm totally new in writing English fan fiction since my mother tongue is actually Chinese, so there might be some literal errors in my story, and please forgive me.* John and Mary Watson's child has been born, and somehow Sherlock is on the duty of taking care of the baby for a whole day... There will be more interesting stories about the day in the next chapter!
1. Chapter 1

Greg Lestrade rushed down the stairs two steps a count with his right hand busy dialing to the Scotland Yard.

"Back up! I need maximum back up. Baker Street, NOW! "

Greg threw himself into his BMW 530D GT, then turned on the siren and put it on the roof, and steered his sports car toward the main roads.

'HELP.'

'BAKER ST.'

'NOW.'

'HELP ME.

'PLEASE.'

The messages were totally the same with those he got before John's wedding. Greg had hesitated for zero-point-five second if Sherlock texted him for another petty speechless thing such as the best man speech. However, he just called for back-up anyway. In case.

A honk dragged his wandering thoughts back from the messages he got two minutes ago.

"Whatever comes wrong, Sherlock will be able to deal with it. He is Sherlock Holmes…" Greg murmured to himself while the tires making a sharp scream because of his U-turn. Cars honked again.

Greg ran upstairs. The door was open, he rushed into the room.

"What's going on?" Greg asked with puffy voice.

The sitting room was empty. Greg started to feel real panic. He searched around the room. The wrinkled newspaper scattered over the table and the cup tipped on the armchair, coffee stained the armrest.

"Sher-"

"This is hard." Sherlock's voice appeared from behind.

"Wha-" Greg turned back to Sherlock and suddenly he couldn't find his tongue.

"Do you know how to take care of children?" Sherlock held a little boy by one hand, and lifted a book by another.

The bronzing sentence 'HOW TO TAKE CARE OF A LITTLE KID' on the hardcover book was shown to Greg Lestrade.

The sound of siren approached, and the wind brought with propeller manifested that the helicopters were not far away.

"What?!" Greg found this feeling familiar. The feeling of the urge to punch on Sherlock Holmes' sharp cheek bones and shouted to him.

"I need a nanny." Sherlock seemed to find something wrong from Greg's expression. He paused for a second.

"Didn't go to any trouble, did you?"

The urge of throttling Sherlock Holmes overwhelmed Greg. He told himself to calm down and took a few deep breaths to stop himself from resting his hands around the consulting detective's neck.

The noise of propeller couldn't be ignored now.

Sherlock finally noticed the siren approaching and the noise of propeller. He paused and saw the white window curtain blown. Slowly, slowly, Sherlock turned back to Greg.

The boy Sherlock held started crying.


	2. Chapter 2

"I have said sorry to you, Gavin." Sherlock touched his wound on his left cheek, and hissed for the pricking feeling.

The little boy had stopped crying. He was crawling on the floor and found the photos in the newspaper very funny. He kept patting on a face with stiff smile of a politician on the wrinkled newspaper.

"It's GREG!" Greg Lestrade roared from his teeth and put the accent on the pronunciation of "R". He had tried his best to clutch the armrest of the couch to keep himself from beating another blow on the other side of Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock paused for a while.

When Greg had almost started to doubt if it was too over for him to punch Sherlock, the tall person in the armchair changed the way he sat, and turned to Greg, who had began to take things seriously because of Sherlock's conversion, with a serious expression.

"So, you know how to take care of babies?"

The baby boy started chewing the newspaper simultaneously.

"Why didn't they entrust him to Mrs. Hudson?" But to you. Greg added in his mind, watching the tall man wearing gloves.

"Because they are on their second sex-holiday and Mrs. Hudson was on the trip with Angelo."

Sherlock held the wet and messy newspaper on the floor between his thumb and forefinger and threw them into a plastic bag without giving a glance to the baby boy, who was sitting on the floor with an I-AM-GOING-TO-CRY expression on his face.

"Who is Angelo?"

"Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson will be there tonight." It seemed that Sherlock didn't hear Greg's question, but both of them knew that he did.

Sherlock nipped the last pieces of the wreckages of the newspaper into the plastic bag and made his way to his lab.

"You know how to take care of babies?" Sherlock probed from his lab.

Sherlock set the baby boy on the chair, then he left for kitchen.

The boy sat on the chair unwillingly. He began to look around the lab. The furnishings and decorations of the room were foreign to him. Neither in his Dad's office nor in his Mom's study (the words Daddy and Mommy were still not meant many things to him, of course) was familiar with this room. He stopped looking around and looked straight forward instead. There was something glittering on the table in front of him. He stretched his tiny chubby arms to try to touch it. He was enchanted. The foreign circumstance and the newspapers meant nothing to him now. He could see nothing but the glittering thing in his world.

Sherlock came back from the kitchen with a cup of coffee and an eyeball he clipped with tweezers, and saw the creature entailed strenuous efforts to lift his beaker up.

He remembered the remained liquid in the beaker was sodium hydroxide, undiluted.


	3. Chapter 3

"Shouldn't let Graham sneak back to his boring cases. He can't solve them anyway."

Sherlock went in the lab while kept an eye on the creature.

He had never taken care of any immature creature－mature ones either－except Red Beard, which was a dog and had been dead in his childhood,

He walked to the table quietly and placed his coffee on it. The eyeball fell into his coffee again.

But he had no time to save Jeff (the eyeball) now.

Turning to the little creature, Sherlock thought it easy to take away his beaker from this toothless creature's hands.

He gripped the beaker.

The beaker wasn't moved. It was kept steadily in the boy's hands.

Sherlock frowned.

"Things might be that easy to go." He thought.

He squinted, deciding to try again. He pulled the beaker with a bit more strength, but not to the full, for fear that the sodium hydroxide might splash out from the beaker.

However, the beaker seemed to feel good in the little creature's hands.

He knew that something was trying to grab his glittering. It was the Big White. It approached his glittering and tried to take it away from him. No, he wouldn't let that happen to his glittering. He would defense, revolt, resist, and fight against the Big White to protect his glittering. This would be the hard one, but he was not going to give in.

The war continued, but the not-giving-up boy had felt tired. He felt the impulse of crying. Although he didn't know what this act meant, his Daddy and Mommy had always given in when he did that anyway.

At the moment he wanted to start to cry, the Big White suddenly disappeared.

The little boy was puzzled.

Was that meant he had defeated the enemy? But he hadn't started to cry yet! He had been prepared for crying, but he found his preparation useless now. The feeling of great loss knocked him down like a hammer. The glittering seemed not glitter at all abruptly. All this little creature felt was the loss and the weight of the beaker.

Now he wanted to cry.

He landed the glittering down to where he had taken from.

He missed the Big White now.

All of a sudden, something sparkle appeared to his eye corner.

When Mrs. Hudson went into 221B, Baker Street at night, the situation of chaos she had imaged on her way here seemed to be her over-worries.

The apartment was quiet, and there was no light left in the living room.

In Mrs. Hudson's imagination, there would be wreckages on the floor here and there; there would be Sherlock possibly dying, and the little boy sitting on the floor crying to life.

However, all of her imagination above seemed not happened.

The apartment was as quiet as usual nights when Sherlock didn't want to compose.

Mrs. Hudson walked through the kitchen, finding that the only light in this apartment was from Sherlock's lab.

"Maybe Sherlock had found a nanny finally. But how could he find a nanny who works to this hour?" She thought.

She stepped into Sherlock's lab, and froze.

"I'm starving, Mrs. Hudson."

"Wha-wha-what…" She started to stammer.

The little boy on the chair holding a pair of tweezers with an eyeball on it turned to look at her.

Sherlock didn't care for Mrs. Hudson's reaction. He just kept going on burning something on his alcohol lamp. It looked like a human's tongue.

Finally Mrs. Hudson had been awake from the startle. She turned and walked to the kitchen in a weird pose and answered in a weak voice.

"I'm not your housekeeper…"


End file.
